That's Love
by Madeleine Van Helsing
Summary: Johnlock: John and Sherlock get back from a crime scene, and find they can't sleep. Sherlock visits John's room to ease his boredom.


The room was cold and dark as John and Sherlock returned from a crime chase. They slung their coats on the sofa and fell down into chairs.  
"That was _brilliant_," laughed John who was half asleep already.  
"Yes, it was rather," Sherlock agreed.  
"So were you," continued John.  
"No more than usual," Sherlock disagreed. The murderer had been the victim's girlfriend who was really his sister. She had kidnapped him, drowned him, then returned him to his home. Sherlock had extracted the right infomation from her with great ease in a short amount of time, whereas John had found it completely baffling. They sat and laughed about the case and the police officers, the murderer and the victim. John found that Sherlock laughed so rarely, the sound was even more breath-taking than his mind. Sherlock found John saw so many things as amusing, and laughed so often at stupid things, making Sherlock want to laugh also, it was intoxicating. As they ran out of things to laugh about, the room grew silent. They just watched each other as they wondered what to do next. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly and suggested tea.  
"We _should_ be in bed by now," smiled John, so they retreated to their rooms.

Sherlock lay on his back, watching the ceiling. He couldn't sleep.  
John lay on his front, face down in the pillow. He couldn't sleep either. There was a knock on his door. A knock that said the person knocking wasn't going to wait for an answer. He was right. The door opened as soon as the knocking stopped. Sherlock came in.  
"Can't sleep?" asked John. Sherlock shook his head.  
"Me niether," John replied with a yawn. Sherlock sat down on the side of the bed and began to explain the science behind why they couldn't sleep. John didn't really want to know.  
"What are you doing in here?" he interupted.  
"Bored. Why else?"  
"Don't know..." There was nothing but the sound of the wind outside and the ticking clock for a few minutes, and at last, John almost fell asleep. _Almost_. No such luck while _Sherlock's_ in the room. As soon as he saw John's eyes closing, he started up a conversation, so John _had_ to talk, and quickly lost all hope of sleep. They continued in this way until the clock struck 'one'. John immediatly leant over to his friend.  
"Pinch, punch, first day of the month, and no return."  
"_What?_" Sherlock didn't get it at all.  
"It's the first of March. In thirty one days, it'll be April Fools." Sherlock didn't know what April Fools was, either. John had to explain.  
"What paint is there in that?"  
"There _is_ no point. It's just a bit of fun." Sherlock didn't apear to see what fun was to be had in embarrassing and manipulating one's friends for one's own amusment. Niether did John, when he thought about it.  
"You hardly ever laugh," obseved John, suddenly.  
"You hardly ever stop," replied Sherlock.  
"What's your point?"  
"Again, no point." Sherlock knew John was upset about something. He wanted Sherlock to laugh more often. Be happier. What was _that_ about?  
"John?"  
"Yeah?"  
"I notice that over the past few weeks, you've been acting rather..._ sad_. Why is that?"  
"I've been slightly stressed lately. Y'know, with jobs and girlfriends and stuff."  
"Yes, well I just wanted to say, as a... a friend, if you need anything..." How uncharicteristic. John rose his eyebrows in surprise.  
"I know what you're saying, Sherlock. Thanks, but I'm fine." That could have gone better. John knew he was digging at something deeper than a friendly hand. He'd leant forwards and patted Sherlock's shoulder as if it was _him_ who needed comfort.  
"It's _fine_," John told him.  
"_I'm_ fine."  
"I know," replied Sherlock, looking over to him. Just for a second, their eyes locked. John went slightly pink. Sherlock went slightly paler. What eyes Sherlock had, John realised, that seemed to capture any light they could and reflect it back, making them shine in a cold manner that sent shivers up John's spine.  
He liked that.  
What eyes John had, Sherlock realised, that smiled when he was happy, twinkled when he laughed, and seemed to sing out every emotion like an orchestra of light in such a way it made Sherlock's hair stand on end.  
He liked that.  
John caught Sherlock's gaze again. It was a very fond gaze.  
Sherlock caught John's eye again. It seemed very warm.  
John didn't exactely _lose_ complete control of his body, but he _certainly_ wasn't expecting to do what he did. He launched himself from his pillow, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, and let their lips crash together.  
John's mouth was cold. Sherlock felt it should have been him who was so chilled, as he seemed to himself, so heartless. He was indead heartless, or as much as he could have been. He was shocked by this sudden change of events, _so_ shocked that he didn't feel a thing. Even as he took John's top in his fists and pulled him closer, kissing him back with as much passion as he felt possible, he felt nothing. No shock, no exitement, no love or hate or pleasure or awkwardness. He didn't feel _anything_ until John pulled away.  
"I'm so sorry," he babbled.  
"I don't know what came over me."  
"_Shut up_," laughed Sherlock, a sudden rush of joy drowning him in a racing heartbeat, and a total mind-blank. He took John by the hips, kissing him again, and feeling _everything_, if not more than he should have felt the first time. He could feel John's pulse as he took his hand, pounding harder than a galloping horse, and he found himself leaning into him, laying back onto the bed. John could tell Sherlock had lost himself, when his head hit the pillow and the detective was still kissing him. He let Sherlock stay on top of him, and slid his fingers round the back of his neck. Black curls swamped John's hands and Sherlock's arms surrounded him, pushing him into the matress. Embracing Sherlock with as much affection as he could give, John made sure they _both_ fell into the sheets together. Sherlock rolled off, so that they lay side by side, his hands holding John's face, and John's hands holding his. Slowly, they fell apart again. When he'd got his breath back, Sherlock began to speak.  
"I've never felt it before, so I'm not entirely certain, but on what clues I have (how I've _reacted_, how I _feel_ and _felt_), on what I can tell, I _think_ I may be in love." John's weak giggle was enough to make Sherlock's smile light up his eyes, and his eyes, in turn, light up the room.  
"I _hope_ you are," John told him.  
"Because otherwise, that was some kind of bribe, and _god_ knows what you want!"  
"You."  
"Pardon?" Sherlock turned his head to stare deep into John's eyes. He wasn't smiling anymore. This time, he was dead serious.  
"It's what I want," he whispered.  
"I want _you_." John smiled.  
"I want you too." But Sherlock still seemed upset.  
"What's wrong?"  
"I don't understand. I feel... I don't know _what_ I feel. I'm confused."  
"That's love," sighed John, curling his fingers round Sherlock's.  
"You'll get used to it."

_And he did._


End file.
